My (hypothetical) Memoirs

Not as profound as someone that climbed Mt. Everest or moving as a survivor of something horrific.

But I think it would still be relatable.

Possibilities are:

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Ping! “My House is Not a Fraternity House!” I really thought the trash stashing (and other nasty what-not) was a rare phenomena that occurred in my house. My sister, nephews*, & niece lived with us for a couple of years and the boys were notorious. To me, at least. No one else noticed. The rest of the family — my parents, my daughter, my sister, my niece — were blind to it and eventually decided I had it in for the boys and was picking on them. So, I started carrying my camera with me on my daily sweep of the boy pen and taking pictures of the trash and other gnarly leavings where I found it. After several consecutive days of being treated to a boy-mess photo collage of the day, the family realized the boys were as gross as I said and it had nothing to do with my boy-tolerance level. What is it that makes them think it’s okay to slide their dishes under the closest piece of furniture or dump them in a drawer (double eeewwwww)? Why do they think nothing of ghastly garbage like Q-tips which have seen the inside of a sweaty, dirty ear and “mystery” piles of crumpled tissues stuffed between couch cushions or in the open side of the coffee table? I don’t get it.

*My nephews were 16 to 18 and 14 to 16 while they were living here. Not 6 months after they moved into their own place, my sister called me and apologized out of the blue. For what, I asked? For doubting just how irritatingly disgusting her boys really were, since she was now having to deal with it. All I could say was payback is a beyotch, beyotch. Smugly.